…and he’ll take a mile.
Sometime, in the early winter, Mister Pinkerton became mostly an indoor cat. He still spends parts of his days moseying about in the great outdoors, snacking on juncos and voles, but when he isn’t hunting to eat, he’s inside lounging about on my furniture.
I can’t tell him no or scold him, he’s just too fluffy and darling.
This week, while I’ve been taking my breakfast and writing my letters, he’s taken to laying about
on the kitchen table in the sun amidst the ferns and succulents. He looks so perfectly and utterly delighted with himself, over there in the spools of silky sunshine, that I’ve been leaving him be.
Yesterday morning, he decided that he’d rather lay on top of my letter writing station. I simply moved his legs a little bit and wrote around him — I wrote to the rhythm of his velvet engine.
If you receive a letter from me in the next week and it’s full of a dash of springtime cat fluff, do please pardon. It’s only because I gave the cat an inch and he took a mile.